Venus

Chapter 18

You have recovered from this morning's mishap, I trust, Mistress Wyat." Buckingham took snuff, smiling blandly at Polly. They were in one of the small drawing rooms that evening where card tables had been set up; voices rose around them in laughter and occasional exclamation.

Polly looked at her interlocuter, and for a moment was deprived of the power of speech. The duke was regarding her with a look of contemptuous amusement, radiating menace. The cheerful buzz around her seemed to fade under the inescapable conviction that this man was going to hurt her. Without thought, her eyes darted in a desperate search for Nicholas, needing the certainty of his presence as shield.

The duke's smile grew blander as he absorbed her confusion. "I appear to have said something to upset you," he murmured. " 'Twas but a polite inquiry."

Polly licked her lips and found her voice. "I do beg your pardon, my lord duke. My mind was elsewhere. I am quite recovered, thank you. It was a most minor mishap."

"Your… uh… protector seemed not to consider it minor."

"I do not know what you mean, sir." Why did she feel as if she were dancing at the end of a string being manipulated

by those long, beringed fingers? Her gaze raked the room again, wildly searching for Nicholas.

"Why, I mean simply that Kincaid appeared monstrous disturbed," replied the duke casually. "Most flatteringly concerned for your safety."

"I cannot imagine why that should surprise you, Duke." From somewhere came the strength to resist the creeping paralysis produced by those drooping, hooded eyes and the soft tones where some as yet undefined threat lurked, barely masked.

He gave a little laugh. "Oh, it did not surprise me in the least, bud. Not in the least." He watched her as she struggled to make sense of this. "Love is a most demanding master," he murmured.

Involuntarily, she gasped, her eyes widening in shock. "It is, of course, not at all a fashionable emotion," continued the soft voice dripping its honey-coated menace. "But we shall keep it as our little secret, shall we?" Seeing Polly for the moment incapable of response, he offered a mocking bow and sauntered over to a table where an intense game of three-handed Gleeke was in progress.

Polly stood for a minute trying to shake herself free of the enveloping dread. What was going on? What had he seen? What did he mean? She must find Nicholas.

Gathering up her skirts, she hastened from the room, then stopped. What was the point in describing that exchange to Nicholas? It could not possibly mean anything. Why should it matter that Buckingham now knew that Polly and Nick were not simply two individuals involved to their mutual benefit in a perfectly ordinary liaison? Her own association with the duke was over, so nothing was lost by his knowledge. What did matter was that she had betrayed her fear even as she had confirmed his words with her shocked silence.

With determination, she returned to the card room, taking her place with a laughing group around the shuffleboard.

"Something appears to have pleased you mightily, duke," observed Lady Castlemaine, her eyes gleaming through the slits in her black silk mask.

"Perhaps I, also, should adopt the fashion of the vizard," drawled His Grace. "I'd not have my every thought broadcast upon my countenance."

"Only broadcast to those who have the code and can therefore read," responded her ladyship. "You are uncommon satisfied by something. Confess it."

The duke smiled and reposed himself elegantly upon the scroll-ended chaise longue beside her. He straightened an imaginary wrinkle in his aquamarine hose, turning his calf for further inspection, thus offering his companion the opportunity to admire the fine shape of his leg.

"Has Lord Kincaid's little actor at last come to appreciate your manifold attractions?" hazarded Lady Castlemaine, her baleful gaze wandering to where the subject under discussion sat at the shuffleboard. Polly wore no vizard, her own having been removed by the king himself, on the grounds that beauty such as hers had no right to be concealed beneath a mask. Such a statement had done little to improve Lady Cas-tlemaine's disposition, and her mouth thinned spitefully.

Buckingham read her expression correctly, despite the mask. He chuckled. "Do not let your ill will show, my dear. Malice is not a pretty emotion. Its manifestation wreaks havoc with the complexion; such hard lines as it produces."

Lady Castlemaine managed a wan smile. "I am indebted to you, my lord duke, for your advice. I will make certain to heed it. But, pray, will you not answer me? Does your present complacence have aught to do with the actor?"

"Well," the duke murmured, "I think you could say that I have justification for feeling satisfaction." His eyes rested on Polly, and he nodded pleasantly to himself. "I have found both the currency and the price, my lady."

The countess closed her fan, tapping the ivory sticks against the palm of her hand. "Will you say no more, sir?"

"If I may count upon your assistance," the duke replied, "you shall be a party to the entire plan."

"Gladly," the lady agreed. "I will render whatever assistance I may."

"I shall need you to plant a few seeds in the king's ear," Buckingham explained, his voice low, a smile on his lips, his eyes still upon Mistress Wyat. "Easily done in the privacy of the bed curtains."

"On what subject?"

"Why, treason, my dear, and my Lord Kincaid."

"You talk in riddles." Barbara momentarily forgot the need for caution, and her voice rose above an undertone. "What has Kincaid to do with treason?"

Buckingham shrugged, smiled. "I am sure I can find a connection if I look hard enough, madame; sufficient to impeach him and lodge him in the Tower."

"But how would such a manufacture assist your cause with the actor? She does not appear to hold him in ill will, for all that they do not live in each other's pockets."

"Ahhh, now there is the nub," the duke said, his smile broadening. "The facade they present for public consumption is precisely that-a facade presenting the complacent protector and the kept woman with an eye to the main chance. In fact, matters run much deeper." He shook his head in mock wonder. "So beautifully they play it, too. But I tell you, Barbara, if aught were to be amiss with my Lord Kincaid, I'll lay any odds you choose to name that his mistress will make whatever sacrifice demanded of her to buy his safety."

"And you will name the price," said Lady Castlemaine, her eyes brightening as comprehension dawned. " 'Twill be a high one, I imagine."

"By the time I have finished with the little whore, she will never want to show that glorious countenance at court again." The vicious words, spoken in a soft, pleasant tone, fell from smiling lips. Barbara Palmer shivered in sudden chill. "She will know herself for what she is-a slut whose place is on her back in Mother Wilkinson's brothel."

Indeed, reflected Barbara with a renewed shiver, one did not refuse the patronage of the Duke of Buckingham with

impunity. The wench would suffer well for such presumption; for imagining that a creature coming from nowhere, with a little talent and a moderately pretty face, could dare to play fast and loose with the most powerful man in the land.

"When do you begin?" she asked, taking a cheese tartlet from a tray presented by a bowing page.

"There is no time like the present." Buckingham waved the tray away and took snuff. "You will begin to make little murmurs about Kincaid, which I will follow up with graver doubts. By the time we are returned to Whitehall, the crop should be ripe for harvesting."

It was not until after Christmas, however, that the metropolis was considered sufficiently plague-free for the court's return. Polly did what she could to overcome her fear of Buckingham, to regain her pleasure in the sojourn in Wiltshire. Her efforts were assisted by the duke, who seemed to lose interest in her altogether, and eventually she was lulled into a sense of security, able to believe that he had enjoyed tormenting her in revenge for her rejection of his advances, but had now found other interests.

He had, indeed, found other, related interests, and the quiet work of discrediting Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, went on behind the scenes, and in the privacy of the king's bed.

The twelve days of Christmas at the court of King Charles II surpassed Polly's wildest dreams of that pleasure-oriented celebration.

Christmas at the Dog tavern had, in latter years, been celebrated with less than Puritan severity, certainly, but Polly had been kept far too hard at work to glean much amusement from the mummers and the musicians; the mistletoe hung upon the rafters had merely served to add to her burdens. There had been Christmas fare, and she had eaten her fill of goose and mince pies, but nothing in that experience had led her to expect the magnificence of this Christmas.

Day after day, the junketings continued to the music of viol and drum; tables groaned beneath the boar's head, the

pheasants, the sturgeons and carps, the venison pasties, cheesecakes and sugar plums, nuts and fruit. Faces remained flushed with the canary and sack, the punch and best October ale that flowed from earliest morning until the last reveler had sought his sodden slumber. And each night, the festivities were directed by the man who meant Christmas-the Lord of Misrule.

Polly had thought it the most famous jest that Richard De Winter, elegant, aloof Richard, should have been chosen for this role, but she realized rapidly how clever a move it had been. It was the Lord's task to keep the wildness from becoming out of hand, and De Winter enforced his discipline by fixing sconces, or penalties, of wickedly witty appropriateness, so that the miscreant, in paying his forfeit, would provide lavish entertainment for the assembled company. A sullen look, an unkind remark, the bringing of dissension, were punished instantly, as was horseplay that crossed the boundary of play. To be accused as a spoilsport of either kind meant the ordeal of firecrackers and squibs, and while the company might split its sides laughing at the antics of the offender, leaping and dancing as the fiery things tied to his heels and hems exploded, the delinquent was unlikely to repeat his offense.

Polly, who had the misfortune to hiccup with laughter in the midst of some exaggeratedly dignified speech of the Lord of Misrule, was required for her insolence to walk upon her hands for the length of the state room. Fortunately, her costume for that evening permitted her to perform the gymnastic feat without loss of modesty. She was dressed as a grimy street urchin, in tattered breeches and torn shirt, soot smudges on her cheeks, her hair hidden beneath a ragged cap. Not a costume that detracted from her beauty in the least, Kincaid reflected, watching her progress between the lines of cheering revelers. The cap fell off, and her hair tumbled loose over her face, but she completed the walk nevertheless, flipping her legs over her head at the end to land neatly on her feet, brushing her hair away from her face,

flushed with the upside-down exertion, as unselfconscious as if she had performed for them upon the stage at Drury Lane.

"How did you know she could accomplish such an exercise?" Nick asked Richard, standing beside him.

"An accurate surmise," said the other, laughing. He glanced at his companion, who was looking in soft amusement at the antics of his mistress. "What d'ye intend, Nick? Now that the business with Buckingham is over."

"About Polly?" Nick's smile broadened. "There's no hurry, Richard. She is happy with matters as they are. I'll not lay the burdens of wife and motherhood upon her just yet. I'd have her enjoy some playtime first. She's had little enough in her life… not even a birthday present, Richard-" He broke off abruptly as the subject under discussion came prancing over to them.

"Am I granted absolution, my Lord of Misrule?" Polly bowed before Richard, cap in hand.

"You have done your penance," he said solemnly, tapping her shoulder lightly with his black rod of office. "But have a care, lest you offend again."

The musicians, who had played a march tune during Polly's gymnastics, struck up a galliard. Polly, despite her incongruous costume, was whisked away into the stately line. Taking advantage of this peaceful interlude in the generally riotous proceedings, the two men turned their backs on the room.

All softness and amusement had gone from Kincaid's expression now. "D'ye mark it, Richard?" he said quietly. "There is a most noticeable coolness. It has been building these last weeks, and now he barely accords me a nod in return for a bow."

"Aye," Richard replied in the same low voice. "I mark it well. Can you think of a reason for it?"

"I have racked my brains, man, but can come up with nothing. I wondered if, perhaps, 'twas Polly. His Majesty would have her in his bed and chooses this manner to tell me to withdraw. But that is not his way. All his mistresses have husbands or keepers; 'tis useful, is it not, to have someone

available to acknowledge as his own any royal bastards?" This last was said with a cynical twist of his lips, and received a simple nod of agreement from his friend.

"Our sovereign is a man of moods," Richard said. "Mayhap this will pass as quickly as it came."

"It's to be hoped so," Nick said somberly. "Else I fear to receive my conge without ceremony. Say nothing of this to Polly. I'd not spoil her present pleasure for the world."

"No indeed," Richard agreed, turning back to the room. " 'Twould be the act of a rogue to do so. Such unaffected delight is a gift to all."

Polly's own gifts this Christmas numbered twelve as her true love followed the old carol. Each morning she found upon her pillow some new delight. There was a saddle of tooled Spanish leather, then boots to match; a little locket of mother-of-pearl; inlaid combs and lace ruffles; and one morning, a tortoiseshell kitten with a blue satin ribbon around its neck.

"She is called Annie," Nick said, propping himself on one elbow beside her, enjoying every nuance of expression on the mobile face. "With care, she should not become so dirty that she will have to be thrown away."

"Oh, I love you!" Polly declared, hugging him fiercely.

"And I you." He stroked the rich honeyed mass tumbling over his chest, looking beyond her head into the middle distance. From somewhere the storm clouds were gathering, and for the life of him, he could not grasp a thread of explanation.

"What is it?" Polly felt his sudden tension in the stroking hand on her head, in the broad chest against her cheek. She sat up.

Nick smiled and put aside his foreboding; there was nothing he could do until he knew what he was facing. "What could possibly be the matter? Let us go riding."

By the end of January, Polly was once more ensconced with the Bensons in Drury Lane, the court was back at Whitehall,

Parliament at Westminster, and the decimated capital began to pull itself back together. There were still cases of the plague, but the recovery rate was now much higher than that of the fatalities, and the populace ceased to fear; and ceased to observe even the most minimal precautions. As a result, the scourge retained the sting in its tail.

The Theatre Royal opened again. Thomas Killigrew assembled his scattered company, setting to with a will to entrance the play going public.

Polly was once more absorbed in the magic of the theatre. The Duke of Buckingham became as he had once been, just a member of the audience and a courtier she would avoid when at Whitehall. So busy and involved was she that she had little time for Susan's gloominess, and quite failed to notice Nick's increasing distraction. Until both were brought forcibly to her notice.

"Just what is the matter with Susan?" Nick demanded with unusual irritability as the parlor door banged on the departure of a red-eyed Sue. "She has had a permanent cold in the head since we returned from Wilton."

"Oh, I meant to talk to you about that!" Guiltily, Polly clapped her hand to her mouth. "It is just that Thomas is being so pernickety, and Edward wants to play a scene differently, and Thomas says he can go and play for Sir William Davenant in that case, and-"

"Yes, I do not need a recitation of all the trials and tribulations at the playhouse," Nick interrupted, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "What is amiss with Susan?"

Polly, swallowing an indignant retort at this impatient response, looked at Nick carefully. His face was drawn and haggard, the emerald eyes somehow dulled, sunken in the hollows of his face. It occurred to her, with a wash of remorse, that she had been so full of her own activities in the last two weeks that she had asked him nothing about his own concerns. He was frequently in conference with Richard, and sometimes she would come into the room and have the unmistakable impression that they had abruptly switched the subject on her arrival. But she had simply dismissed the

vague puzzle, assuming they would share the confidence when they chose.

"Are you ailing, love?" she asked now, coming over to him, stroking his face with a fingertip. A note of fear tinged her voice as she thought of the plague, but Nick shook his head.

"I am quite well; just fatigued. What is it with Susan?"

She bit her lip, not willing to be so easily dismissed. But perhaps Nick did not want to be pressed, and to do so would simply increase his weariness. She turned to the sideboard, pouring him a glass of wine, wishing that she had thought to mix him a bowl of the punch which she knew well he enjoyed on these cold, inhospitable nights.

"Come feel the fire," she said softly, taking his hand, encouraging him to the hearth warmth. She pushed him into an elbow chair, then sat at his feet, resting her head against his knees. "Sue is sore afflicted, my lord."

The amusement in her voice told him that he need not react to this as to tragedy. He ran his hands through the bright locks pouring like molten honey over his knees. "Enlighten me, pray."

"Why, 'tis Cupid's dart," Polly said solemnly. "Did you not mark Oliver at Wilton?"

Nick thought. "I do not think that I did," he said.

"He is a footman, and most comely," Polly went on. "And Sue is smitten with Oliver and Oliver is smitten with Sue. So you see, 'tis not at all convenient for the one to be here and t'other in Wiltshire."

"No, I can see that it is not at all convenient," Nick agreed. "It could well cause a permanent cold in the head. Well, what's to be done?"

"It seems that Oliver is only an underfootman at present and cannot begin to think of marrying; but what he really would like is to be a gamekeeper in a little cottage, and Sue could have a tribe of babies, which would suit her very well-"

"Just a minute." Nick tugged on a strand of hair to bring

this vision of domestic bliss to a conclusion. "How is this ambition to be achieved?"

"Well, I do not see how it can be if you do not take a hand." Polly turned 'round, kneeling up to rest her elbows on his lap. "I have been meaning to bring it up this age, but-"

"You have been somewhat occupied," Nick finished for her.

"And you have been somewhat distracted," Polly said quietly, examining his face with grave attention. "What is troubling you, Nick?"

"Nothing of any moment." He shrugged. "To return to Sue and her headcold; in what fashion am I to take a hand?"

"It is obvious, is it not? You must employ Oliver as a gamekeeper on your estate in Yorkshire. Then they may marry and live happy ever after."

Nick scratched his nose thoughtfully. "Yorkshire is a very long and arduous journey away. 'Tis a very different life from the one to which they are accustomed. Would you really be doing them a favor? Mayhap Oliver can find such work in Wiltshire. It is a softer life, and not so far removed from London for Susan."

"You will not help, then?" Polly sounded as disappointed as she looked, and more than a little surprised.

"I did not say that. I suggest that you think about it, and consult further with Sue before we make any decisions."

"But if she thinks it a good idea, you will agree?"

"I will write to my steward to see what work and accommodation are available," he promised. "But do not be in such a hurry, moppet. You are not so anxious to lose Susan, are you?"

"No, of course not. I shall miss her most dreadfully. But I cannot be so selfish as to hinder her happiness for such a reason."

Nick smiled at her very clear indignation at such an implication. He pinched her nose. "Your pardon, madame; I did not mean to cast aspersions on your character."

Polly's chuckle was swallowed in a yawn. Nicholas stood

up, drawing her up with him. " 'Tis past your bedtime, sweetheart. And I must away."

"You will not stay?" She looked at him in that same searching way, but could see nothing more than weariness. "Where must you go at this time of the night?"

"To Sir Peter's. There are some matters we must discuss." He reached for his cloak. "But if it is not too late, I will come here afterward. Although I'd not wish to wake you."

"Then I cannot imagine what point there would be." Polly pouted in mock vexation, receiving an ungentlemanly swat for her pains. She skipped to the door and opened it for him. "Begone, sir. The sooner you are about your business, the sooner will it be done, and you may return."

Nick pulled on his gloves, picked up his rapier stick, and turned up the fur collar of his cloak against the January winds. "I had better find you asleep on my return." Tilting her chin with a gloved finger, he kissed her closed mouth, lingering on its soft, pliant sweetness for long minutes before reluctantly releasing her.

Polly stood at the head of the stairs, shivering at the cold blast of icy air as he opened the street door. Then it had closed behind him, and the draft set the fire in the parlor spurting orange. She went over to the warmth, hugging her arms across her breast, a small frown buckling her forehead. Whatever Nick might say, something was causing him powerful worry. Yet if he would not confide in her, how could she help him?

She sighed, staring down into the fire as if, within its constantly shifting pattern, she would see answers. But the pictures formed and dissolved, offering no enlightenment. Turning her attention to a matter in which she could be helpful, she strode to the door.

"Sue! Sue, are ye busy?"

The girl appeared from the kitchen quarters, coming to the foot of the stairs. "D'ye need summat?" she asked apathetically.

"Only some company," Polly coaxed. "I have some news that might cheer you. And there's chestnuts we can roast."

Susan, looking as if she could not imagine being cheered by such offerings, came up to the parlor. " 'Is lordship gone out, then?"

"Aye, some business he had to attend to. But pray listen, Sue. I have talked to him about you and Oliver, and guess what he has said." Eagerly, Polly expounded her plan and the positive part of Nick's reaction. She could see no reason to depress Sue further by explicating possible drawbacks to the scheme.

''D'ye think he really means it?" Susan breathed, all evidence of tears vanished. "Why, t'would be the most wonderful thing." Reaching into the coals, she hitched out a glowing, ashy chestnut, dropping it abruptly onto the hearth, licking her singed fingers.

"But Yorkshire's a mighty long way." Polly decided that in good conscience she should perhaps point out this fact, at least. Picking up the chestnut, she tossed it from hand to hand, in the hopes that the movement would cool it.

Susan, however, disregarded this disadvantage completely. "I've no family 'ere," she said. "An' Oliver's folk're in Cornwall, so 'e don't pay them no mind as 'tis."

"Well, perhaps you should write and ask him what he thinks," suggested Polly, peeling the steaming nut. "Before my lord writes to his steward. Just in case Oliver does not care for the idea."

"Oh, 'e will," Sue said with confidence. She looked dreamily into the fire. "Just think on't, Polly. To be married, with my own 'ouse, and babes, and a cow, and a chicken…" The thought of such plenty rendered her speechless for a minute, then she said curiously, "D'ye think of marrying, Polly?"

The question triggered the old unease, the uncertainty that she usually managed to suppress by refusing to think beyond the loving glories of the present. Now she lied. "I've never thought on it, Sue. I'm an actor, and there's Nick. Why would I want to marry?" She smiled slightly, reaching into the fire for another chestnut so that Sue could not see her face. "There are wives and there are whores in the world

you and I come from, Susan. You are made to be wife, and I to be whore." She shrugged and made the lie complete. "I am content with my lot. Cottages and chickens and cows and babes would not please me half so much."

"But what about when 'is lordship takes a wife?" Susan asked diffidently. "Will 'e keep you, d'ye think?"

That was the nub-the aspect of the future that Polly dared not dwell upon. Nicholas, Lord Kincaid, would need a wife-and it could not be a Newgate-born, tavern-bred bastard. Society might not frown too heavily on an actor's becoming a baroness, but Polly Wyat had more than just the stage in her background, as she and Nick knew. Women with her dubious origins did not make the wives of noblemen and the mothers of their heirs, however much they were loved. So what would happen when Nick did take a wife? Would a wife look complacently upon an established mistress? Or would she demand he throw up his whore and devote his full attention to the marriage bed? In the shoes of this putative wife, Polly felt that she would most certainly insist. It was a desolate thought. "One day I must ask him," she said with a light laugh, another shrug. She was not an actor for nothing.

"Now, do you not think ye should discover Oliver's views on this?" She returned briskly to the original subject, and Sue, fortunately, found it sufficiently absorbing to put the other matter out of her head.

"But 'ow am I to ask 'im?" Susan frowned, then her face cleared. "Ye'11 write the letter for me, won't ye, Polly? Now y'are so book-learned."

Polly looked a little doubtful. "I can read all right, anything at all now; but I've not a fair hand." She grimaced. It was a subject on which Nick was inclined to be testy, maintaining quite correctly that if she bothered to apply herself to the task, she could manage to produce something that did not look as if it had been written by a rampant rabble of centipedes. "But I'll try."

Getting up from the floor, she went to the press for paper, sharpened a goose quill, and sat down at the table to com-

pose the missive. Sue came to stand behind her, exclaiming in admiration as Polly demonstrated this amazing art of writing. "Who's to read it for him?" Polly asked, shaking the sand caster over the script.

"Oh, there'll be someone." Susan peered closely. "What's that squiggle there?"

' 'Tis just a squiggle," Polly said regretfully. "I told you I have not a fair hand. But there's fewer blots than usual. Shall I read it to you? Then you can say what else you want written."

The task took them well into the night, as the fire died and the candles guttered, but so absorbed were they, they noticed nothing until Polly shivered suddenly. "Put more coals on the fire, Sue. We're like to freeze to death."

The sound of the front door made them both start. " 'Tis Nick," Polly said, relaxing at the familiar tread.

"What the deuce goes on here?" demanded Nick, coming into the parlor. " Tis near two in the morning."

"Oh, we have been writing a letter to Oliver," Polly told him cheerfully, reaching up to kiss him in greeting. "At least, I have been writing."

"Then heaven send Oliver uncommon powers." Nick tossed his cloak onto the settle. "He'll never be able to decipher it, else. You might just as well leave him in ignorance."

"Oh, that is unjust," Polly exclaimed. "I have made it fair. Only see." She held out her handiwork.

Nick scrutinized the communication, returning it with a head shake of mock exasperation. "You spell most vilely, Polly. I swear I should have used the rod to teach you with."

"Oh, I do not care a jot for your opinion," Polly declared. "It says what Sue wished it to say."

"Then it had best go to the carrier without delay." Nick took his long clay pipe from the mantel. "Be off with you to your bed, Susan."

He lit the pipe and stood, shoulders to the hearth, squinting through the fragrant blue smoke as if trying to decide on something.

Polly stood immobile, afraid that a movement would dis-

tract him, and she did not want him distracted because just possibly he was deciding to confide in her. A dreadful thought reared an ugly head, nurtured by her conversation with Sue. Perhaps he had resolved to take a wife, and was even now trying to think how best to break it to her.

Nicholas was thinking of the conversation he had just had with his friends. It was clear to them all that for some cause, Kincaid was regarded with deep disfavor by the king. While he had not been denied admittance to Whitehall since their return from Wilton, he was made to feel like a leper, ostracized by all but his special friends. It was a pattern familiar to all habitues of Whitehall in these days of favoritism and conspiracies, both real and imagined. In a society defined by a complete absence of trust, no one was really safe. A certain coolness would be noticed, an absence of attention if one approached the king; then came the frown, the turned shoulder that denied audience; then came the whispers that fed more whispers; and a man was on his way to outer darkness.

Matters had now reached this last stage for Nicholas, and he was no nearer to understanding the cause than he had been at Christmas. None of his friends could throw light on the matter, either. They knew only that Kincaid was persona non grata, that the king mistrusted him, and it was best not to be seen in his company if one was not to be tarred with the same brush.

His present dilemma was a difficult and a dangerous one. He had two choices: to brave it out, taking the risk that no more than mood and whim lay behind his present disfavor; or he could flee London, rusticate in Yorkshire until some other matter took the king's attention, to put Kincaid out of sight, out of mind. The latter course would be the sensible one if he thought there was a concrete reason for King Charles's anger and mistrust. Concrete reasons led to the Tower and the executioner's block. But he could come up with nothing. And if he fled, what was to be done with Polly? As his mistress, she might also be endangered if he left her behind. Yet to take her away would take her from her

beloved theatre at a high point in a career that depended upon being in the public eye. He did not think he had the right to do that-not without absolute certainty of danger. She was not his wife yet, when all was said and done. Fortunately for her, he thought mirthlessly. In his present anomalous position, the greater the perceived distance between them, the better.

"Are you going to leave me?" Polly heard herself whisper, quite without volition. The bleak look on his face frightened her more than anything she could have imagined, and the need to know what caused it had become invincible, regardless of what misery the knowledge might spell for her.

Nick started at this uncanny reading of his thoughts. What could she know of this? "Why would you think such a thing?" he demanded, his voice harsh without intention.

Polly bit her lip, her fire-warmed cheeks cooling with the chill that seemed to enwrap her. "I do not know why; but you appear so distracted, and you will not tell me of the cause. I… I was thinking of marriage." This last came out in a rush, and she dropped her eyes lest he read her panic.

"Marriage!" What sort of a mind reader was she? But now was not the moment for such a subject in all its complexities; not now when he was enmeshed in a web of an unknown's spinning, and he must make immediate decisions that could well have far-reaching consequences for both their lives. "Do you know what o'clock it is?" he demanded irritably. "When I decide 'tis time to talk of marriage, I will apprise you of the fact in good order."

"And I suppose that then I must find another protector," Polly said, unable to help herself. Once the monster had risen, it would not return peaceably to its lair.

Nicholas closed his eyes on a weary sigh. Why on earth was she playing this silly game now? Had she no more understanding of his bone-deep exhaustion, his dreadful apprehension than to make ridiculous jests? He heard truculence in her voice, rather than the anxiety this was designed to mask. He saw her pallor and interpreted it as fatigue; the

gaze that would not meet his, he interpreted as the petulance of an overtired child.

"Do not talk such arrant nonsense," he said shortly. "It seems to me that you lack even common sense. You were exhausted four hours ago, but instead of seeking your bed like the rational grown woman you are supposed to be, you waste the night in idle chatter with the maid."

"I had thought that was why Susan lived here," Polly fired back, confused resentment overcoming anxiety. "So that I should have someone with whom to engage in idle chatter!"

"I do not always make the right decisions, particularly where you are concerned," snapped his lordship. "Get you to bed straightway."

"I will not on your say-so," she declared, furious at this apparently unprovoked attack.

Nicholas sighed. "Polly, I am awearied, too much so to join battle. Go to bed or not, as you please."

"I do please!" Polly banged into the bed chamber, there to crawl beneath the quilt, falling asleep with sticky lashes and tear-wet cheeks and salt upon her lips.

Nicholas remained beside the fire, tobacco and wine providing a measure of spurious ease. Eventually he went to bed, slipping an arm beneath the sleeping figure, rolling her into his embrace before finding his own uneasy oblivion.